A fig in an orange grove—

I pruned myself from the rotting branch,

sawed through the only bark I knew.

Now I stand among the citrus on the longest night,

their branches strung with stars,

garlands of dried slices glowing like tiny suns,

the air thick with clove and cedar.

I watch the easy way they intertwine,

how a hand finds the back of a neck,

how embraces happen without flinching.

I ache in rooms full of warmth.

Grafted here now,

tethered to sap not my own,

wrapped in evergreen and borrowed moss—

the trees around me

teaching what roots can do when the frost comes,

how love moves through heartwood

without asking permission.

Then the gathering scatters.

Everyone carries their candlelight home.

My husband’s hand knows my bark.

My in-laws wrap me in their shade.

This grove has given me everything.

And still—

somewhere, two trees stand stubbornly rooted in place;

they planted me and refuse to water;

they’d lose me before submitting to pruning themselves.

I am full of sap,

of sweetness,

of more love than I was built to hold,

and still bleeding from a cut I made to save my life.

————————————–

Tian Sanchez-Ballado called us from Tallahassee, FL.

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